I know I said I wasn’t going to be blogging while still on vacation, but this morning I got myself a cup of coffee, settled in to watch the Ted Kennedy coverage on MSNBC, and opened up the laptop. And…it was like reconnecting with a dear friend. And I got a little fidgety. And I couldn’t resist the pull of composing just one little blog post about our trip.

One of the great things about this Maine trip is that a few friends were able to come up to join the family - my darling, hilarious, always fun high school friends Abby, Jennifer and Max, and Max’s amazing fiancee, Kasia, who I was so happy to finally meet (Kasia, here’s your story).

Max and I were hanging out yesterday and he asked me about seven or eight times if I had written about him on my blog recently, and then, when I replied no, began asking why not, and explained to me that he doesn’t really read my blog, he just skims through it every now and then to see if he’s made it into any posts. I mean, what can I say? My friends and I are honest with one another.

So to celebrate the fact that I’m finally getting some quality time with Max and Kasia, who now live in Poland, I thought that I would, in fact, dedicate some space to the famous Max Bobbitt. Especially because I have a very nice picture to post:

I must now add Baby Bjorn skills to Max’s long list of other talents (drawing, devising complicated plans to catch lobsters, being a terrific friend, getting Mina really fat, rowing a wooden dinghy across a probably dangerous and shark infested body of water just to say we did it).

Obviously, this Maine trip is a little different than the one we experienced three years ago. Yet we are still able to make a day out of doing, well, not much. As J said, when he’s up here he has absolutely no desire to do anything productive with his life.

Amen. Long live vacation. Long live August in Maine.

Apologies for not writing for over a week, but we’re relaxing off the coast of Maine and I’ve thrown aside the computer in favor wine on the patio and afternoons swimming in the (almost freezing) pool.

Stories - and pictures! - to come after I return home later this week. After eating more lobster. And maybe some ice cream.

We were in New York City a few weeks ago, having lunch with my parents who were in town, and everyone was having an engaging discussion about O. Henry’s short stories, when I looked across the table to where Nora was sitting and said, “Does the baby need more bananas? More bananas?”

“What happened to you? You don’t like anything,” my brother, Vinnie, all but shouted. “Anything that is remotely intellectual, you don’t have time for.” I laughed, because he’s right. As I mentioned in another post, my capacity for anything beyond the morning news - or the celebrity news - has faded in recent months. While I used to love philosophical, literature-infused banter, I now sit out such sessions.

Before I continue, I want to note that I’m not worried for my soul or anything. I mean, I like myself. I don’t think my intelligence is in jeopardy; I’m lost without a good book, and while I do devour mysteries from time to time, I never read trash.

But Vinnie’s right. Something happened. And one of the areas where my interest has faded is music, and that’s what I want to address in this post.

I used to be SO INTO music.

Now, I listen to NPR and podcasts (talk only) and when I get tired of NPR and podcasts and think it might be nice to listen to music, I end up choosing not to listen to music, because I don’t like anything enough to muster the energy and deviate from the norm.

I think some of this is because of the natural progression of age, which no one should be ashamed of. For instance, it’s not a bad thing that I don’t shun money and material goods anymore. It’s not a bad thing that I don’t burn incense.

And, I mean, I’m probably not going to listen to full Bob Dylan albums and think about how I wish I had been a child of the sixties. That’s just not going to happen at this age. But I would like to regain some aspect of what was once a real passion.

I used to browse the aisles in Alexandria local music store Olson’s (sadly no longer open) looking for good, new music. Just looking! Open to anything! I used to listen to the music on display. That’s how I got into bands like Uncle Tupelo. The simple act of discovery.

My friend Matt used to make me mixed tapes full of everything from hippie bands like Jefferson Airplane to offbeat modern-day acts like Jim White, which I still love. I used to put them in the tape deck and just listen. I’d give Matt feedback. He’d make more tapes. We talked about music for hours. For hours.

In college I went through a definite Bob Dylan (still an all time favorite) and Grateful Dead (Kill me now. I will never voluntarily listen to a drugged-out 45 minute jam session again) stage. Then I started more vigorously plucking my eyebrows and moved on. I listened to Pavement and Blur with my friend Mary. When I was a senior I bought a Yo La Tengo CD on my brother’s suggestion, listened to it, and fell in sudden, for-real, true love. I continued to pick up bands from other mixes, like-minded friends’ suggestions. Wilco. Spoon. Belle and Sebastian. Grandaddy. I read Pitchfork and went to lots of shows.

So.

What happened?

What happened was, slowly, surely - and I’m not blaming anyone but myself here - I gave up the reins. I met J (we talked music on that fateful night) and he was into music, too. We became an item and I stopped looking for good sources of new bands, because he was my source. I gave up, NPR became my go-to background “music” and I filled up my iPod with several comforting tunes and a bunch of podcasts. When J would play something for me in the car, my normal, bored response would be something like, “It’s not my favorite,” or “I hate it,” or, the best case scenario, “It’s ok, who’s this?” Woo. Hoo.

There is a book that just came out called “The Slippery Year.” I don’t know much about it, except that my mother recommended it to me and I recently heard the author, Melanie Gideon, interviewed on NPR (of course) and she was talking about her inspiration for writing the book; her husband had just purchased some enormous vehicle that he was completely excited about, and she suddenly realized she wasn’t into things the way that he was. That she no longer pursued the interests she once had. That she was lost.

And I was like, “That’s what’s going to happen to me!” Only I’m 31, and this woman is in her forties.

But the reason I’m writing this post is that there have been a few breakthroughs recently, as far as music goes. I’ve been listening more carefully, and I think I would like to hear more.

Perhaps the best part is that, at this point, it’s all new to me. I’m behind. I’m fresh - practically raw. I haven’t read a Pitchfork review in forever. Hell, I don’t even know what other music review sites people read nowadays. I have no idea what anyone is recommending. You can get jaded reading all those opinions and commentary, but I’m like a kid with an untouched bag of Halloween candy.

J has an impressive collection of music stored on our desktop, so yesterday I sat down and, before I had time to convince myself it wasn’t worth it, I filled my iPod with music I’d heard and remembered liking. The French Kicks, a band I discovered last year and - surprisingly, happily - loved. The song “Lights Out” by Santogold. Phoenix. The Thermals (which is interesting, because the lead singer of this band, I think, has a Colin Meloy-esque quality to his voice and listening to The Decemberists makes me want to gauge my eyes out). “Tightrope” by Yeasayer, from the “Dark Was the Night” compilation.

I am committed to this late summer music revival, which will complement other summer activities, like long road trips and gardening.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not giving up my beloved NPR, but since the part of me that hates everything has started cringing every time I hear Ira Glass’s voice, I think I have a few hours to spare for a long overdue musical education.

This post is a little belated, but last month my blog turned five. Five years of reporting the mundane details of my life to the World Wide Web. I’m pretty sure I deserve a drink!

Since I missed the actual anniversary, I just looked in my archives to see what I was up to this very day five years ago. Lo and behold, J was getting way into identifying bugs. Yeah, we got married and moved and had a child, but you know what? Things aren’t so different.

I’ve been wanting to write a post on this for so long.

Last year, J’s sister Megan got him a subscription to a bird magazine, catering to his favorite hobby. Only the magazine she got him was “Bird Talk,” which - she didn’t realize - is a publication for pet bird owners. Not people interested in watching and identifying wild birds, like J.

So we all sat there on Christmas morning and laughed hysterically at this mix-up. But the best was yet to come! The magazine itself.

I haven’t ever sat down to read “Bird Talk.” Because I don’t need to read it. The headlines featured on the covers are entertainment enough. I can’t get enough of them (and I apologize to anyone who receives and seriously enjoys this magazine, which you are obviously never going to admit to me). Here are a few of my faves from the 2008 issues we received:

“Parrot Driving Your Spouse Crazy? What to do about it.”

“Connect With Your Aloof Bird.”

“Help Your Hen Get Through Hormones.”

“Protect Your Bird From Your Bad Habits.”

“The Real Story Behind Bird Keeper’s Lung” (ok, it’s no good to make fun of medical conditions, but come on, Bird Keeper’s Lung?)

“One Behaviorist Tackles the Pressure of Being the Perfect Bird Owner.”

“Is Your ‘Mean’ Bird Misunderstood?”

“He Said, She Said: Top 5 Complaints, from Owners, from Birds.”

I like that last one a lot. I love the thought of a researcher sitting down with a notepad and a pen and asking a parakeet what his top complaints are about his owner. I’m sure that involved some great dialogue.

So that last picture of Nora was cute, right? Hanging out with Dad while he plays the guitar?

It was really cute. But you know what I wish Nora had been doing instead?

Actually taking a nap.

This is something that I feel only parents - and mostly moms - will understand. I’m not trying to exclude anyone here. I mean, before, when I didn’t have a baby, and I’d hear moms talking about kids and their naps, I was like, “Huh, that’s really interesting. JUST KIDDING COULD YOU GET ANY MORE BORING?”

Talking about naps is boring and this is one of the things I resent about motherhood, especially my recent adventures with stay-at-home-motherhood. Rather than experiencing, say, a stressful meeting with your boss or a pay cut, your trials, once you voice them, seem rather trivial. But they’re not.

Nora went through this period recently where, when I would put her in her crib for a nap, she would stand up and beat on the railings, which would lead to crying, which would lead to screaming. This wasn’t like her. She’s been a good sleeper for most of her months here on Earth, but the excitement of learning so many new skills in recent months, I think, made her reluctant to sleep. I mean, why sleep when you could be practicing new skills, right?! Yeah. That kind of dedication is gonna fade fast in adulthood, sister.

So when J got home, and was all, “My experiment didn’t work today. I think the problem is-” I would say, “Oh, really?” and then explain, flopping on the couch like an overworked factory girl, that, “Guess what? The baby didn’t take her morning nap again today! Can you even believe it? What are we going to do?” You know, like we were dealing with a drug problem. A chronic runaway.

The thing is - and I know some of you get this - it TOTALLY BLOWS when the baby doesn’t take her two daily naps. I mean, yes, she’s cranky if she misses one of them, and I’m not a fan of that, but perhaps even more importantly, if the baby doesn’t nap, I don’t get my time off from taking care of her. My time off! The part where I look for jobs on the internet! Or drink my cup of tea! Or - less fun - do the dishes!

The major problem is relating this information in a sufficiently serious manner. So it doesn’t sound like I’m the most non-interesting person anyone’s ever met. So it sounds like I think life is worth living and all.

Luckily, there are mom friends. “Mom friends.” Jesus. I mean, can we get a new vocabulary for parents, or what?

…when we’re home for the first weekend in ages and it is TOO EXCITING IN THIS JOINT TO GO TO SLEEP, ok?!

When I looked at my blog this morning and realized I hadn’t written since last Monday, I felt a little lazy. No, not because I’ve deprived you guys, because I’m pretty sure you have other matters to attend to and can handle my online absence, but because I’ve been a little lax in terms of getting things done lately. A little into the television. I haven’t even been reading much. In fact, I’ve become kind of intellectually stunted this summer, but more about that later.

So I thought I’d at least write this short post announcing that I plan to improve. I plan to - despite the heat - settle into a nice, productive August; the first month in a long time where we aren’t traveling every single weekend - coming home and hanging our duffel bag on the bedpost just to change the contents slightly and head off the following weekend. We are going to do some projects. PROJECTS! Including a bunch of work on our garden. I’ll post some pictures later to show you what we’ve done so far. Because there’s nothing like sharing your goals with the entire Internet to kick start you into action.